Just One
by BrittFaceNess
Summary: "Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."  "I don't have FRIENDS." -Sherlock/John drabble.


**_a/n: Warning: Spoilers for 'The Hounds of Baskerville' (Series 2, Episode 2)_**

**_just something quick I came up with while watching the episode for the first time 3 enjoy~ please review!_**

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_John's eyes were following after a young waitress dressed in a snug green long-sleeved shirt when his thoughts were interrupted by Cross Keys' barman/innkeeper's voice._

"_Sorry we couldn't do a double room for you boys." He smiled apologetically, not looking sorry at all._

_John took the key. "That's fine. We're…we're not-" the army doctor started to explain his and Sherlock's relationship status, when he met Gary's smiling eyes. John sighed a little and gave up. People never believed him anyways. Why was that?_

"_There you go." John simply said, handing him the money for their room._

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Sleep threatened to take over John Watson's body as he climbed the stairs to the rooms above Cross Keys' restaurant. It had been a tiring day – traveling the four hour drive to get to Dartmoor, investigating Baskerville, along with all the others thing he had to deal with that day.

"_Why would you listen to me? I'm just your friend."_

"_I don't have _friends_."_

The corners of John's mouth turned into a deep frown as the memory came back. Those four words had daggered to the very center of his chest, and even though he had a smart comeback for Sherlock – it still hadn't eased that pain away.

Of course it had hurt him. He had started to think they had actually advanced closer to each other, even if it was just a little. With those four words, Sherlock had thrown all that away.

John walked down the little hallway. He stopped in front of the door for a few seconds, taking a deep breath. Maybe he should have stayed downstairs for a while even though Henry's therapist had left quite a bit ago. Maybe he should have drunk the last half of the bottle of wine. Maybe-

The door opened and John's head snapped up. Sherlock stood there, eyebrows knitted together. "Are you going to come in or not? I can hear your excessive thinking. It's annoying."

John brushed past Sherlock without a word or change of expression. As Sherlock shut the door behind him, John's eyes landed on the single, full-size bed in the middle of the small room. His eyes darted around for any sign of a second bed, but lost all hope when seeing there were no other doors or hallways. Just one bed. One, single bed. One.

Sherlock sat in an armchair beside the window and continued whatever he had been doing on John's laptop, completely ignoring John's minor panic attack.

John sat on the edge of the bed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Sherlock…about what happened tonight…" He started to say. Silence filled the room then, and as the doctor glanced over to the detective, all words failed him. Sherlock was typing away, completely oblivious to anything else at the moment.

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The consulting detective finally finished typing up a rather long article for his website. He never knew that his trip to Dartmoor would give him so many ideas and inspirations for what to write next. Sherlock closed the laptop and glanced around the room. All the lights had been turned off except for the lamp beside the bed closest to the detective. John's form was under the covers on one side of the bed, and by the slow rise and fall of his chest, Sherlock knew he was fast asleep.

He must have been so intent on typing that he didn't realize John had already gone to sleep. A quick glance at the clock told him it had been an hour and a half since the army doctor had come in the room.

Sherlock unfolded his long body from the chair, stretching a bit before shuffling over to his own side of the bed. He stared at John then, for a long moment. John's sleeping face was peaceful: the usual forehead lines were smoothed out, lips slightly parted, and hair ruffled a bit against the pillow. A smile touched Sherlock's lips at the sight.

Once under the covers, Sherlock turned the lamp off. Darkness shrouded the room, the only light being from the full moon outside. John was far enough away that their bodies did not touch – not even a hint of body heat hit Sherlock.

John stirred when feeling Sherlock's movement. Him being an army doctor, Sherlock guessed, made him hyper aware even in the deepest of sleep. "Mmm. Sh'lock?" He mumbled.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing the doctor. "Shh. Sleep." He simply said.

"Mm'k, g'night…"

A few more seconds of silence, and then Sherlock's lips parted. "John, I'm sorry about tonight." A slight pause. "But I meant it. I don't have friends." Even as he said it, a slight blush crept up his long neck. "I've just got one." His voice was a soft whisper now.

Sherlock stayed silent and waited impatiently for John's answer, but all he got in return was a quiet snore.

The corner of the consulting detective's mouth quirked up and he reached out, brushing his fingertips along John's cheek. He would tell the doctor tomorrow then.

"Good night, John."


End file.
